


Wait & Hope

by Erengalad



Series: Wait & Hope [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Starting at 01x07 A Rebellious Woman, and i'm really bad at tagging & summaries i'm just a potato
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erengalad/pseuds/Erengalad
Summary: I quite suck at this so I'll keep it brief and honest: I watched The Musketeers like eight times while in quarantine after years of not watching the series and a) I missed the boys b) I remembered my love for Athos, Ninon and what could've been and here we are. Sobbing in the f floor because I could've loved a man like you."It's over," Athos said softly. He took her fingers in his, not quite ready, despite his fervent pleas, to look into her eyes. An emotion he dared not name had pooled in his since they'd taken to the corridors, and the musketeer prayed for his heart to return to a normal pacing as Ninon leaned in against him.
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère/Ninon de Larroque
Series: Wait & Hope [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934122
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Wait & Hope

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother tongue and it's been a while since I last wrote something long in it, so bear with me, my rustiness and the occasional kicks to your grammar. Also, the dates -since it's all a mess, I've rearranged some stuff.

**PROLOGUE**

_May, 1632._

_Monastery of the Holy Cross_

  
  
  


A quiet sense of relief overcame him as he led her away from the cloister and the pyre, but the rapid beating of his heart spoke of a troubled mind -a troubled heart, indeed, of guilt and fears that would not be so easily subdued. Not without wine washing away his sins and afflictions, not without him torturing himself with thoughts of what had _nearly_ happened that morning.

The scent of smoke was fainter in the corridors, but it clung to her chemise as a reminder of injustice served in the name of greed, superstition and what the Grand Cardinal might have deemed the best for France. He’d blame the gleam in his eyes and the tightness in his throat to that same smoke, but the words he’d spoken to Richelieu still echoed in his mind, a plea uttered in terror and despair. A plea that said he could have whatever he wanted and still let her go free. That she’d never set a foot in Paris. That her voice would never be heard among the _salonnières_ any more and her influence would fade with the passing of time and the example he, the Cardinal, would set. 

Religion had not even played a part in that show trial and it had been evident from the start. Lies, words twisted in the wrong way, the pretense to use witchcraft, and then, _she_ had come along.

Of all the people in the world, _she_ had been the one to bring about the demise of an innocent woman.

The arm Athos had draped about Ninon de Larroque tightened his grip, as if that motion alone could convey a sense of safety he was not so sure of feeling. And then, as her steps faltered, her hand found its way to his chest, fingers closing over the soft linen of his scarf. He hadn’t been able to tear the gaze from her, an unusually open display of concern settled upon his features, but it took the musketeer some moments to find his voice. 

“It’s over,” Athos said softly. He took her trembling fingers in his, not quite ready, despite his fervent pleas, to look into her eyes. An emotion he dared not name had pooled in his since they’d taken to the corridors, and the musketeer prayed for his heart to resume to a normal pacing as Ninon leaned in against him. “You’re safe. I…”

Once again, the woman managed to steal his words away, but nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for the _comtesse_ silently crumbling down in his arms, holding onto him as though the ground had cracked open under her feet. Perhaps it had, and if the only comfort he could grant Ninon was to hold her shivering frame for as long as she needed, so be it. After all, Aramis had been right all along.

“I’m sorry,” came the hoarse whisper, her voice muffled by his leathers.

“Please,” he said. It pained him more than he cared to admit to watch so much sadness clouding her eyes, but the musketeer did not avert his gaze. “I should be the one apologizing.”

It took Ninon some moments to compose herself, some moments in which her embrace tightened before she let her arms fall at her sides. A faint smile that bore no happiness, it’s only intention that of reassuring the worried man about her well-being, tugged at her lips as she lifted a hand to wipe her face clean. At least, a small portion of her self-assurance seemed to shine back in her eyes. 

“For what, _monsieur_?”

 _For everything_ , he wanted to say. _For doubting your words. For thinking ill of a lie intended to protect your girls. For not listening to Aramis. For the harshness. For everything._ Instead he trapped her hand in his again to examine the wounds marring her wrist where the ropes had cut into the skin.

“Let us take care of this,” Athos offered, ever practical in his care and effectively ignoring himself, his worries and a guilt he didn’t feel strong enough to address out loud. “Find you something to change and clean yourself.”

Ninon looked down at the coarse linen shift the nuns had given her, noticing for the first time the blackened patches and the stains and the way it hung loosely from her shoulders. She nodded once and retrieved her hand from Athos’ grasp.

“Am I to remain here?” she asked softly.

“Is that what you want?” he asked back in the same tone.

“Do you think life in a convent suits me?”

Athos almost snorted a laugh at that, relieved to see amusement flickering back in her eyes despite the occasional shivering. Her lips curved further and Ninon reached out to rest a hand against his bearded cheek, perhaps trying to express something before that quiet, intimate moment between them ended; but the arm that had supported her along their way resumed its hold around her waist, bringing her closer to the musketeer’s side and his very welcoming warmth.

“Let’s get you a robe before we have to add a cold to your ailments.”

  
  
  



End file.
